


Lions and Tigers

by teamrocket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamrocket/pseuds/teamrocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a consulting detective and his army doctor. But that story's not important; everyone's heard that one. This is a story about the consulting criminal and his sniper. But remember, not every fairy tale has a happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lions and Tigers

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://tesett.tumblr.com/post/23863015961/tesett-slicksrustledjimmies) Tumblr post.  
>  **EDIT:** 7/23/12 I meant only to fix a grammatical error, but somehow, caught myself adding another 250 words.

_It was only supposed to be a one time job_ , Moran bemoaned mentally as he dragged his inebriated boss out of the bar. The bastard had one too many – or more like _twelve_ actually – tequila shots and started dancing on the countertop, stripping. He seemed to think they were in Mexico – perhaps because of the similar climates between LA and Mexico – and started singing – if you could call it that – in Spanish, causing a bus of German tourists to gawk at him. Sebastian smiled at them, although it was more of a grimace...he _flashed his teeth_ at them and gestured at his boss apologetically. _How did I get roped into this?_

*

Moran was originally contracted for only one job. His boss's usual hit man was unavailable – something about being decapitated – so the Irishman had hired him to do the job while he was looking for a replacement.

"Ten-thousand pounds – fifteen if the police don't have any leads. I'll wire the extra five-thousand pounds after they make an official statement," he had said anonymously through the phone.

The sniper had agreed to the terms and quickly and skillfully shot the victim – a rodent-like man with pasty skin and dark circles under his eyes – from the seventeenth-story window of a building half a mile away with a single bullet, twisting his lean body out of the window and narrowing his piercing blue eyes into the scope of his rifle.

Moriarty had been impressed, and he had requested to meet in person to discuss future business opportunities.

*

The two had met in a nondescript cafe in the shadier part of London. Jim had looked differently than how the sniper had envisioned him speaking on the phone. He was a lot shorter in person, dark haired, and his eyes, they were unsettling sharp, setting him apart from everyone else. Amongst all the sleep in the cafe was a lone lion, idly biding his time. Sebastian was willing to bet that he could take out anyone anytime he'd like with the click of a finger if he wanted to. He was obviously above them all, and not one to get his own hands dirty – the brains behind the expedition.

Jim looked up and noticed the blond-haired man. His face morphed into something sinisterly professional. The man simply exalted confidence – no, it was more than that. Perhaps cockiness mixed with superiority. Along with that, there was something in the smirk plastered on his face that gave Moran a flash of annoyance as he made his way towards the Irishman's booth.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he drawled out, greeting him, his eyebrow arched. “Finally, at last. Didn't think you would show," Moran checked his watch.

"It's been half an hour since you called."

"Yes, half an hour too long. That was some kill," he said, changing the subject. He slid an unmarked white envelope across the table. "Fifteen grand in cash. No doubt that they'll have no leads. You can count it if you'd like." Moran briefly rifled through the envelope. He had been duped more than once in the past.

"Don't trust me?" The Irishman pulled his lips into a pout before rearranging them into a smirk. "Good boy. Don't spend it all at one whorehouse; you wouldn't want to get the clap again." Sebastian didn't respond to the goad said nothing, silently steaming, waiting for him to bring up the real reason why they were there. _But how did he know that?_

"Would you like to guess what I do for a living, tiger?" he said instead. Sebastian glanced at his clearly expensive suit. “Westwood,” the shorter man said when he noticed.

"The boss of some sort of smuggling ring or something?" The obnoxious smirk on his face widened.

"Have you ever heard of a 'consulting criminal?' Course not, Sebby," he said mockingly in a singsong voice. "Do you know why? Because I invented it. I'm a lot like you, a tradesman for hire. Except, not really. I outsource crimes to other people and let them claim all the glory while their money lines my bank account." The Irish in his voice was intoxicatingly charming; if circumstances were different, Sebastian would allow himself to respond to it. The consulting criminal's dark eyes pierced into his own, watching him.

The sharpshooter returned it with a blank, neutral stare designed to mask what he was thinking. "So?"

“So how far can you shoot with that pinpoint accuracy of yours?”

“Depending on the circumstances, I'd say a mile and a half on average. More if all factors were favorable.”

"Excellent. I'm in the need of a new sniper, and I was rather impressed with you. You'll be paid an exorbitant amount of money, so long as you remain available whenever I need you," he proposed. "Besides, I have a thing for blonds."

"I'm not-" The consulting criminal stopped him.

"No, no. Don't even try that. I can read you like a book." He shot him a seductive look across the table, cocking an eyebrow. He was right.

"I don't fuck my bosses."

"No, no," he murmured, "but you will, soon enough."

"I don't need the money," Moran argued desperately. He didn't want the consulting criminal – whatever he was – to think that he could be bought that easily.

"Are you sure? A steady, reliable income, no more boats or trains. I didn't think the government pays you that much with that dishonorable discharge. I'll fly you anywhere you need with my private jet. Plus, there's me.

“We could even go poaching in India!” he added in singsong with a smirk.

"No," the gunman admitted. He frowned. “Wait, how do you even know that?” Who was this guy?

He sneered. "I know everything about my potential employees. Don't try to lie to me again. Or I will slice off those pretty lips of yours and use you as target practice." Sebastian didn't know if he wanted to punch him or fuck him. The Irishman stood up to leave.

"Here's my address," he said, flicking a slip of paper with a messily scrawled address at him, "Stop by sometime, and show me what you can do," he said, winking.

As he walked by Sebastian, he leaned over, whispering in his ear. “'This is my rifle; this is my gun. This is for fighting; this is for fun.' Let's explore that statement some time in the future, Sebby.”

The sharpshooter jerked his ear away. “Don't call me 'Sebby,'” he snarled.

The consulting criminal only laughed. “I wear the pants in this relationship, Sebby. Learn to love it.” He started walking again, but half-way towards the door, he stopped and turned back.

"James Moriarty. Bye!" he called out in singsong. The ex-soldier stared at him, watching his silhouette disappear. Was he just hired by a madman? This could go either really well or really poorly.

~

They had been leaning over the balcony of one of Jim's properties in Switzerland, near the Alps. The skies were clear, the scenery was beautiful, and the game was bountiful, but Sebastian didn't have time to appreciate any of that; he was on the job _and_ babysitter duties. His boss was leaning on his back, breathing over his shoulder – literally. The sniper would've usually gone alone, but Jim insisted.

“Whatever you want, Boss. As long as, when the time comes, you keep quiet so I can concentrate.” Sebastian instantly regretted saying that as soon as the words left his mouth. His boss would purposely go out of his way to do the polar opposite. He had been working for the consulting criminal for a couple of weeks, and by the end of the first day, he was sure that the man was possessed by the devil himself.

“Look, Sebby, look over there. I think I see a moose! What's the plural of moose? Meese? What's a moose doing here? I don't recall saying that it could trespass on my property. Sebastian, shoot it for me.”

“Fuck's sakes, do you want this guy dead or not?”

“Do I want him dead?” Jim paused dramatically, pretending to think it over. “Do you know what I want, Sebastian? I want to watch a movie on the couch with some popcorn. Sebby, go make me some popcorn,” he whined, his eyes glimmering mischievously.

“Oh, for the love of – Boss, maybe after I shoot this motherfucker, okay?” He nodded towards the man who had just stepped into their sight and narrowed his eyes, raising his rifle. Jim pouted.

“Why don't you ever pay me this much attention, Sebastian? Don't you love me too, huh?” he whined, knocking Sebastian out of focus. Fuck this, he needed a cigarette. His fingers twitched towards his pocket before he remembered that he didn't exactly have the time for one right now.

“Son of a bitch, go stuff it, you cunt,” he roared in exasperation, whirling around. He grabbed Jim by the shirt and jerked him forward, crushing their mouths together. Jim's dark stubble tickled the sniper's upper lip. Sebastian felt his boss's lips curl up in surprise before his tongue slipped into the sniper's mouth. Sebastian gripped the back of Jim's neck, his nails digging into flesh before he half-heartedly pulled away, breaking the kiss off.

He took a deep breath, concentrating every fiber of his body into his rifle and shoving anything he felt towards his boss into the back of his head. He felt the power coursing through his veins, power to decide who lived and who died, and narrowed his eyes at the scope of his rifle, quickly repositioning it, and firing a bullet into the back of the man's head. A clean kill.

He felt nothing, no empathy, as he watched the blood slowly seep out from the man's head. They were little more than glorified tigers in India. He did this for the thrill, not for the kill. As soon as the bullet made its mark, he no longer cared.

Jim was grinning deviously at him as he lowered the rifle. “That was some first kiss, huh, Moran?” He leaned up to Sebastian's ear, whispering a proposition, “Let's go blow up the Alps together.”

The blond looked down into his dark eyes before seizing the back of his neck and planting another kiss on his mouth. While their first kiss was a rough, quick kiss, their second one was a hungry one, their tongues sliding against one another and their teeth nipping bloody lips that didn't care. The passion between them was terrifying and powerful, igniting in flames instantly as their mouths meshed. Sebastian felt as if he was being enveloped with a thick, velvet smoke, and he welcomed it.

He felt Jim's bottom teeth rake over his lower lip and bite his upper lip, hard. He felt a small twinge of pain, and there was the coppery rust of blood on his tongue, but then Jim, Jim everywhere. He pulled hard on the back of his boss's hair, grinding his long body against Jim's.

When they finally broke apart, they were panting and Jim was beaming at him crazily – a look that reminded Sebastian of a serial killer committing homicide. _He probably would look like that if he were the type to get his hands dirty. He probably would get off on it. Goddamn, I'm kissing a madman_ , he realized. _Shouldn't it bother me more?_

“Well, well. Two in one sitting. Lucky day, eh, Moran? Do you get off on murders, too?” Jim murmured.

“They shut you up,” the sniper told him. Jim only laughed.

“I still want to watch that movie. We can go blow up the Alps later. Don't forget that popcorn, Moran. This is what I employ you for.” They spent the next couple hours tangled up on that couch, with Sebastian getting up for one thing or another, until Jim decided that he didn't want to watch another movie and wanted _real food, Sebastian; can you cook? Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?_

~

Jim was quiet the first time Sebastian brought him to his flat; he had been there before, but he had let himself in, and they were strictly business only. He wandered around like a little kid, exploring every nook and cranny and snooping through all of the sharpshooter's things, his lips pursed, judging the flat. Sebastian didn't mind until he heard glass break.

He woke up that morning – if you could call it morning – to Jim lying on his bare chest, shaking him, scowling at him like there was something he had done wrong.

“Daddy's had enough of your flat. You're moving in with me now. _You don't actually_ want _to live here,_ do you, Moran?” He cooed, dangling a key in front of his face. Sebastian groaned. It was too early for this conversation. He muttered something, a vague agreement, and drifted back asleep.

When he awoke again, half his possessions were already moved out, and he was on the floor where his bed should've been, naked, with only a small silver key on his chest, the devil nowhere to be seen. _This is what I get for dating a psychopath_ , he thought, resigned, realizing that he didn't care.

~

Sebastian awoke with the butt of a gun caressing his cheek and Jim's arm slung around his neck, his neatly-filed nails digging into his collarbone.

"I could shoot you right now," he purred, his hot breath tickling the sniper's ear. It was strangely arousing.

"Do it, Boss," he said softly, daring him, twisting his head back so his lips could meet Jim's. Jim chuckled darkly between kisses.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Moran? Finally free of me at last. Yeah..." he murmured, his voice disappearing into a hiss. Jim traced his jawline with the gun.

"No, never," he said quietly in a low, gravelly voice, dragging his lips down to his boss's neck, his teeth scraping against flesh, biting. Satisfied, Jim stroked the side of his cheek with the gun once more before tossing it aside.

Sebastian left a trail of rough kisses down Jim's slight chest until he reached the waistband of his boxers. While Moran himself always slept naked, his boss would always have a pair of boxers on. He cheekily claimed that they made him feel more gay, which Sebastian just rolled his eyes at. Today, it was Armani. He slowly tugged them off with his mouth, his teeth grazing the consulting criminal's thigh.

"Good boy," Jim purred in approval, his fingers ensnared in Moran's blond curls. “Make me come, tiger.” The sniper's head bobbed up and down, his tongue running up and down the shaft, eagerly lapping up the salty pre-cum spilling out of the tip. He felt Jim shake, and his nails dig deeper into his flesh, pulling his hair. Sebastian's tongue swirled around the pulsing head, and he felt his thighs clench. The sniper smirked, taking his mouth off his prick, stopping just before Jim reached climax.

The consulting criminal made some sort of noise in his mouth. “I will take a fork and personally stab your eyes out, chop you into pieces, and serve you as soup if you don't put your pretty little mouth back on my dick,” he spat out.

Sebastian couldn't help but chuckle. “Go ahead, Boss. While you're looking for a fork, fetch me the lube, will you?”

“Get it yourself, tiger. What else do I pay you for?” Sebastian groaned, pressing his chest against Jim – who was just lying there, in the way as usual – stretching his arm towards the bedside table. His fingertips grazed the bottle of lubricant just outside his reach a couple of times until he finally inched over enough to reach it. Sebastian scowled at Jim, who just feigned innocence, channeling an overgrown puppy.

“Sebastian, you know what I really like about your body, besides your dick? Your chest,” he murmured, running his hands down Moran's torso, tracing the still-fresh knife marks he had inflicted himself from last night, his Irish accent more noticeable than usual. “Oh, by the way, I trimmed my initials in your pubic hair while you were sleeping,” he added. Sebastian recoiled as the words sunk in and glanced down. True to his words, there was a crudely snipped “JM” in the midst of his sandy curls. Sebastian swore, shoving the smaller man, who only smirked.

“I just thought that I might as well have more of an incentive to go down on you in the future,” he whispered in his ear, his voice like velvet, sending shivers down Sebastian's spine, straight down to his groin. He grabbed the bottle of lube and began slicking himself up. Jim watched idly, his limbs dangling off the side of the bed as he laid on his stomach.

“Bend over,” Sebastian ordered.

Jim grinned cheekily. “Only if you say please.”

The gunman rolled his eyes and said through clenched teeth, “ _Please_ bend over... _boss,_ ” he tacked on before he could reply. The consulting criminal complied, and Sebastian pushed a well-lubricated finger in, causing a weak moan to escape the Irishman's mouth. Sebastian slid his finger in and out a couple of times before inserting a second. Jim squirmed impatiently.

“Hurry up, Moran. I have careers to end and people to kill.” Sebastian rolled his eyes. His boss was still his boss, even during sex. He removed his fingers, wrapping them around Jim's dick, and positioned himself, teasing him slightly as he lightly traced the rim with his dick, and finally thrusting inside. God, he felt so good. Sebastian's fingers flew up and down Jim's shaft fervently as he pounded into his ass. Jim, arching his back, gave a yelp as Sebastian rammed into his prostate. Sweat was trickling down both men, and the headboard shook wildly, slapping the wall.

Moran gripped Jim tighter as the Irishman thrust his hips backward, burying his cock. He quickened his pace, taking deeper thrusts as well, his breath becoming rougher and rougher. His vision blurred out and he gave a shudder, coming inside of his boss – they were both tested, so why not? Jim moaned, feeling the force of the explosion and the warm, sticky fluid ejected inside of him.

Sebastian's limbs turned to jelly, and he relaxed for a second, indulging in the post-sex bliss, before turning back to Jim. His fingers flew up and down his shaft. Sebastian dragged his tongue down the throbbing member, leaving a long wet trail of saliva amongst the sweat. He pushed it in his mouth, swallowing as much as he could, before bobbing up and down again. His tongue swirled around the head, lightly poking at the puckered hole. Jim's whole body thrashed about as he whimpered. Sebastian lapped at the head before bobbing up and down the shaft. He could hear Jim moaning incoherent encouragements.

Sebastian took the head out of his mouth and rapidly flicked the skin underneath it. He did that for a little while before taking the head into his mouth again and humming. He cupped Jim's balls with his hands while licking the shaft simultaneously. Jim's body was writhing wildly, and he was moaning loudly. Jim arched his back, and his breathing became shallow. Sebastian rapidly bobbed up and down while his hand moved fervently pumped when Jim finally came, screaming loudly as his cock jerked once beforehand before going stiff and exploding.

Jim collapsed on the bed, his eyes half-closed and his face flushed from the ecstasy. Sweat and cum intermingled on their skin. Sebastian patted the consulting criminal's leg before lighting a cigarette, taking a long drag and shuffling off to the kitchen to make Jim a cup of coffee. He'd take care of the sheets later. _This is not what I trained for_ , he thought as he poured the hot liquid into the mug, exhaling rings of smoke. _I'm a tiger, a hunter, a killer. He's got me trained like a house cat. Only Boss – I'll do this_ only _for him._

~

Sebastian sighed, paying the woman at the convenience store connected to the dingy gas station.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, handing him the plastic bag. The blond forced a smile back and pushed the glass door open. Whatever sorry smile that was on his face slid off instantly as he turned around. Fucking Jim. Sebastian had driven around Orlando for the last hour in the rental car, looking for a store that was open on Christmas morning that sold _ice cream_ because the little bastard was hungry and didn't like anything they had already at the hotel.

He drove quickly, breaking all the speed limits, hoping that the fucking ice cream wouldn't melt. Sebastian kicked the hotel door open and threw the plastic bag at Jim, who was perched on the bed, watching television.

“Here's your fucking ice cream, Boss. Merry Christmas.” Jim pawed at the bag indifferently before his head comically whipped over to Sebastian.

“I said I wanted chocolate ice cream! This is chocolate chip!” Sebastian said nothing as his fingers twitched for his gun before he went outside for a smoke.

~

Jim wasn't the type to work at home; he didn't believe in it. That didn't mean, however, that he never _took_ work home. He did whenever it called for it. On most days, he'd make a phone call here and there ( _If I don't get the money in an hour, I will decorate my walls with paintings made with your blood._ ) and rant about the imbeciles at work that Sebastian had to kill.

Occasionally, he'd limp in, injured, and snarl when the sniper tried to help him, complaining about his suit while yelling at him for being so useless. Once he'd calmed down, which was almost certainly after a few fragilities were broken, their pieces shattering everywhere, his boss would insist on Sebastian accompanying him suit shopping ( _If you were there today, doing your job and protecting me, I wouldn't need a new suit,_ Sebby.).

When Jim needed him as his sniper, the two would leave the flat together. Jim would watch his set up before parting with his words of encouragement ( _You better not mess this up, love, or else the only thing you'll be good for is feeding the fishes after I dice you up. It's a shame that such a pretty face would have to go_ ). Sebastian would watch idly as his boss scared the living shit out of the prey, keeping a laser pointed at their foreheads, before he'd receive the signal to shoot. They'd take turns mocking the victims' reactions afterward.

When Jim's work became dangerous or when he had to travel, Sebastian would accompany him as a bodyguard. He'd follow his boss, standing behind him silently, stoically, as he sneered unnervingly at his enemies and business partners alike.

Jim would always make him wear one of the expensive suits that he'd bought him (It wasn't that they didn't fit well; it was just that Sebastian felt like a plastic doll wearing one of them, no matter if it was Westwood or Wal-mart.). None of Jim's exorbitant, _goofy_ energy that he was always bouncing off of was present in his business dealings; Sebastian couldn't help but to compare the two.

However, when Jim was just working at his office, making phone calls and such, or even worse – _golfing_ at the country club, there was no need for Sebastian to be there, but there was always something for the sniper to do, whether it be assassinations or groceries. Jim would work odd hours, and so, Sebastian never knew when to expect him.

He always knew, though, when Jim was home before him. He'd come home to the Bee-Gees being blasted throughout the flat and Moriarty nowhere in sight. His boss would creep up on him, making a sport out of catching him off-guard ( _"A moment's vulnerability will be the death of you," he crooned ominously from behind, the blade of his knife – what could only be described as_ playfully _– digging into his cheek slightly. "Then what good will you be to me, dead?"_ )

 _He has the personality of a two-year-old_ , Sebastian thought sourly, _A two-year-old donning designer suits, wielding guns instead of Legos, with the brain of a revolutionary genius, the sex drive of a man ten years younger than him, and a heart of a psychopath. How is this man, who hides behind couches with a knife, silently snickering in anticipation, the same man who makes art out of corpses instead of paint?_

He and Jim were by no means the same, but they were compatible. Jim needed a more sensibly lethal sharpshooter to balance him out. In the past, many have foolishly mistaken Sebastian to be the colder man at first, and he did seem like the colder man if Jim was in one of his playful moods. Sebastian was a tiger, mercilessly – yet mercifully – springing on his prey, whereas Jim was more like a lion, preferring to play with his food until he got bored and pounced. Like a lion and a tiger, they weren't the same, but they were compatible, and it suited them well.

Lately, however, it didn't go as smoothly as it usually did. Most days, Sebastian would wake up alone, with the other side of the bed long cold. Jim would text instructions ( _There is a bag of chocolates in the sink. Open each one of them, dip the individual wrappers in mercury, and reseal the chocolate._ ) throughout the day. Occasionally, he'd text a location – and the sniper would race to meet him – but more often than not, Sebastian didn't get to see the boss until late.

 _It's because of Sherlock_ , the sniper thought darkly, a pang in his gut twisting every time he thought about him. _Jim is trying to win this silly game he's been playing for so long, but if things go wrong, it's not going to be him who's lost; it's going to be me. That bastard._

Half of the time, when Jim didn't need him, the consulting criminal would disappear until late at night, forgetting restaurant reservations and leaving Sebastian dining alone with the entire waitstaff pitying him.

"Just playing the game. Daddy's got it covered." was the only explanation that Sebastian ever got. He'd stay up plotting, leaving the sniper to go to bed alone, staring at the ceiling, worrying as his arms felt empty without Jim, angry that he was worrying when, were the roles somehow reversed, the consulting criminal wouldn't do the same.

Sebastian knew that it was irrational and that his boss was a smart – the _smartest –_ man but he couldn't help the constant worry gnawing at his mind that the end was near. He knew it was irrational, but Moran couldn't quite dismiss it.

He had been present in each one of their meetings, always hiding in the shadows, unseen. He had seen for himself how much in common, intellect-wise, the two were; if things were different, if Sherlock Holmes was on the side of the devil or, the two megaminds would easily be brilliant, conspiring business partners. Those two were like magnets moving in circles around a barrier, perfectly in sync with each other. Eventually, one would knock the whole cycle out of balance, and Moran didn't even want to think about what the collision would mean.

What would happen once the game ended? He knew that his boss enjoyed playing this game, but it couldn't go on much longer. What would Jim do once he didn't have a Sherlock Holmes to toy with any longer?

What he wouldn't give to be a psychopath like Jim. If his boss ever found out, he'd never be able to live it down.

 _Jim would be Jim_ , he finally thought, drifting off to sleep. The consulting criminal would always wake him up around two, wriggling under his arms. Sebastian would sleepily curl his body around Jim's, cradling his body. Spooning was nice, especially when your boyfriend was the world's only consulting criminal. He'd never let himself fall asleep until after Jim did, feeling his breathing slow before he closed his own eyes once more. He may be the world's greatest bastard, but he was _his_ bastard, and he'd be damned if he didn't spend the rest of his life chasing James Moriarty around.

Of course, the bastard would then wake him up at God knows what hour, wanting a bubble bath or some shit, making the sniper rethink his life plans and how it wouldn't be so bad if he just killed that little fucker. Which the little fucker would read in his face, smirk, and compensate for physically.

God knows why the neighbors from the flat downstairs moved out so quickly...

*

"I thought you said you wanted a bubble bath!" he snarled as he wrested Jim into the tub.

"I changed my mind. I don't want one any more," he grinned mischievously, "unless you're in here with me!" He pulled Sebastian in with a splash.

"Now give me a blowjob, Moran."

"Fuck you, Boss."

"Maybe after the blowjob."

~

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings,  _ Sebby _ ? Oh, you ordinary people. You're so  _ ordinary _ , with your emotions and domesticity. If you wanted domestic, you should've gotten a regular job, perhaps in the army! Except the army doesn't even want you, do they?” Jim spat out cruelly. Sebastian's teeth clenched and his fingers twitched towards his rifle. He wanted to shoot, wanted to place a bullet clean through his head, except...

The sniper flung his ashtray instead. He didn't aim to hit him, the selfish bastard – just to throw. He aimed to throw. Jim giggled, or at least giggled in the broadest sense. It was too loud, too full of contempt, too twisted, to be classified as a giggle in the traditional sense.

“Go ahead. Fling all the ashtrays you want. Who's the toddler now? Let's see who will be more broken, you or the ashtray.”

“You goddamn prick!” Sebastian felt the words searing his throat, tearing themselves out of his mouth. “I thought you were fucking king. You certainly strut around like you're boss! No one could bring you down. But you're letting a sodding detective? You're supposed to be a genius; fix this. Think yourself a way out. Or are you just  _ ordinary _ like the rest of us? You're terrified. Terrified of being  _ ordinary _ . That's why you try so hard, to prove that you aren't. It's not working, though. Just look at yourself!” He realized his hands were shaking.

“Sod it,” he muttered, grabbing his rifle. The sniper tore out of the flat. He needed air. No, he needed to get away from Jim. No, what he really needed was a cigarette. He flicked his lighter into life and sat on the stairs, watching the tiny flame flicker. He thought Jim was the fire making him feel alive, but he was just burning him up, consuming him until he was char and ashes, flickering out after he had changed him forever.

He exhaled smoke, feeling the nicotine course through his body. Jim was usually so changeable, so Sebastian never really let him get to him, until now. He had been ready to put a bullet through his forehead, like he had done to so many other people, who hadn't deserved it as much as Jim did, in the past. Except...  
_ Except Jim was going to do it himself soon enough. _

Another drag of smoke. There was a reason he didn't fuck his bosses. Business empires, mafia bosses, they all fall eventually. Jim was no different. What made him think that his boss would be any different? He blew out another breath of smoke, flicking the ash onto the ground. Fuck. He wasn't supposed to care. He was supposed to be hard, cold, stoic; he was supposed to be immune to feelings. He wasn't supposed to fall in love. He wasn't supposed to be human, a puss.

What made him change? What transformed him into this? Jim? The psychopath? The truly cold-blooded reptile? What made him think that he could change James Moriarty? What convinced him that James Moriarty had softened? Tigers were vicious animals, primal killers, but in the end, they would get shot by hunters like him. Well, now it was his turn, only Jim was the one pulling the trigger.

Jim had saved him, but Jim also damned him. He had given him a bit of hope, only to violently crush it. He could see it now. He wasn't a tiger; he was a mere mouse. Jim had been playing with him all this time until now.

Sebastian stood up, letting his cigarette fall from his fingers. He crushed it beneath his foot, extinguishing it. He needed more of a distraction. Anything to keep his mind off of Jim.  _ Target practice, it is. _

*

Sebastian crept into the flat silently, reeking of cheap booze and smoke, but there was no need; Jim was out. Still pretending that he was king and above them all.

He opened a closet and took out one of his jackets, a thick leather one. Sebastian flung himself onto the couch and draped the jacket over his body; Jim wasn't the type to forgive and forget. Some limits were best left unpushed.

Sebastian didn't know when he fell asleep, but when he opened his eyes, he felt a large weight on his chest. Crinkling his nose, he groggily lifted his head to investigate, only to find Jim curled up in a ball, muttering threats in his sleep, nuzzling his face into Sebastian's chest. Sebastian smiled sleepily, wrapping an arm around the consulting criminal's back, and drifted back to sleep.

When he awoke again, Jim was sitting on the couch, reclining against his chest, watching telly. Well, he was channel-surfing, anyway. He paused on one program long enough for Sebastian to catch a snippet of the show.

“Love is handing someone a gun and letting it point to your head, believing he won't pull the trigger,” someone said. Sebastian glanced up at the screen just to catch a brief flicker of bright yellow – a cartoon, then – before Jim changed the channel.

“That sounds like what we have, hmm, Moran?” Sebastian glanced at Jim, who was looking straight ahead at the screen, expressionless.

“Didn't think you were one for sentiment, Boss,” Sebastian said, the corners of his lips involuntarily twitching up. He absentmindedly ran his fingers down Jim's thigh. Jim tucked his feet up into the sharpshooter's side and said nothing, but he didn't have to. It was already out there.

~

Sebastian knew it was time when he woke up; he just didn't want to accept it. He could feel Jim's body still pressed beside him, but judging by his breathing patterns, the consulting criminal was awake. So, why was the sun up and where was the weapon pressed against his jaw?

He rolled over, face to face with the man himself, catching his breath. Jim's eyes, they were sad, apologetic.

“Good morning, Richard Brooks,” he forced a smile upon his face, trying to lighten the mood. His smile slid off instantly when he didn't respond. Sebastian looked into the smaller man's eyes, wordlessly begging him, threatening him not to do this. Finally, Jim lightly dragged his thumb across the sniper's lips and cupped his chin, tenderly stroking the side of his cheek.

Jim's lips squeezed into a remorseful line. “Do you know why I chose you? I trust you and your judgment. While you'll never be a brain like I, you're not ordinary like everyone else; you're loyal and a man of action. That's why, when I'm gone, I want you to rule my empire in my place.”

“No, boss-” He cut Moran off.

“I've read all the fairy tales, Seb. I know that the villain never gets a happy ever after. They say that every villain is the hero of their own story, but they're wrong.”

“Cock raping _shit_ they are! That doesn't mean dick, Jim! That doesn't mean you have to die!” Sebastian protested angrily. 

"Whoever said that every fairy tale has its happy ending, I'll kill them in the afterlife for you," he promised, grinning bitterly, as he ignored what the sniper just said.

"You don't believe in the afterlife," Sebastian stated bluntly.

"You know me too well," the consulting criminal mused thoughtfully, his facial expressions shifting into something Sebastian had never seen on his boss's face before, almost a frank remorse. "Poor you, Moran. Ordinary people delude themselves with the promise of an afterlife because they cling on desperately to the hopes that this isn't just _it_. This isn't all they're ever going to get. They believe until the moment they die that there is something more to this meaningless existence, that there's going to be the _bliss_  they've been falsely promised, they've earned by staying ordinary, staying boring, staying _good_. I can't even give you that, Sebastian. Because you're not them; you're not ordinary, and you've finally proved it. And this is your punishment."

There was a silence between them as Sebastian struggled to find a coherant answer to that. He didn't know how how to respond.

Jim smiled sadly. “You know what to do, Seb. One last job. Then you'll be free.”

“Fuck's sake! _Don't say that like your time is up!_ That's not what I want. I want to keep working for you, you wanker!” he shouted, exploding. This was all wrong. Jim wasn't supposed to be trying to consolidate him; that fucker wasn't like that! Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking shit!

Jim chuckled but his heart wasn't into it like usual. Empty. “Loyal to the end,” he murmured. “How unfortunate that your unemployment is inescapable. I'll be leaving everything to you, though. It's up to you whether or not you continue on without me.” He paused and added, “However, rest assured that my spirit will personally hack your limbs off with a shovel and use them as golf clubs if you choose to throw away my life's work.”

“Goddammit, you can't just fucking do this. You can't just fucking leave me, not like this.”

“Would you rather I not have told you? Would that have been _kinder_?” He spat that word out like it was a disease. “Silly boy. Silly _tiger_.” he murmured affectionately as he caressed Sebastian's cheek. The part that Jim's hand touched felt numb. “Did you think that we could've ran around the world together, hand in hand, committing crimes forever? There is no happy ending for us. Don't you ever learn?”

A single tear escaped Jim's eye, slowly trickling down his cheek as he looked at his sniper in a way with his big puppy eyes that made Sebastian want to break down and start throwing objects across the room, but he had to play his role as the stoic sniper for Jim. He wasn't supposed to feel anything, and he didn't, except for Jim. What happened to professionalism?

“Yes, Boss,” he said tonelessly, tearing his eyes away. So damn loyal even to the end.

“Do you wish that we never met? Or that you're just my employee and nothing more?” Jim said softly. Sebastian looked up. Those eyes, still fixated on him, _damn_ him. Damn him and his twisted sense of kindness, his empty chuckles, his faulty reasoning. Damn him for leaving, for not taking him along. Damn him for deserting him, for promising the world, for letting him _hope_. Damn him for leaving him all alone in the world again. A lump formed in Sebastian's throat, and he struggled to swallow, struggled to speak, struggled to fight the tears that were threatening to overflow.

There was a long pause as Sebastian collected himself.

“No, Boss,” he finally said gruffly.

~

Sebastian clutched his rifled, pressing it to the searing pain inside his chest as he sobbed silently, crying now that Jim could no longer see, as the consulting detective sliced through the air – his coat flying up as he fell. The sniper's lips stretched over his teeth, forming the jagged cry that he could not release, keeping it bottled up inside his chest. The butt of his rifle dug into his abdomen as he clung on harder – as if he was really falling into the tornado of anguish, and it was the only thing keeping him chained to solid ground – his nails clawing at the stock of his rifle.

Sebastian had wanted to shoot the fucking _army doctor_ anyway, but he lifted his finger off the trigger in the last second, deciding that it would be more of a punishment to leave him alive. John Watson would hurt like he was. That's what they got for being the geniuses' live-ins, right? Death would be too kind.

He felt as if Jim had reached into his chest and lit a flame at the center of his heart, smirking as it slowly spread to other parts of his body, setting him ablaze. His eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming down his face, as he sat on the stairwell, gripping his dog tags.

Several times, his lips pushed back to release a wail, but it was like his vocal cords were already seared off, and his cries were forced back down into his chest. He was left rocking back and forth, suffocating on the silence.

Jim had felt like smoke and fire, setting him aflame with passion every time the two embraced – his tongue rolling over Sebastian's, roughly wrestling with it. Yet, it seemed like he had been literally stoking the flames all this time, and Sebastian was only feeling the pain now. _James Moriarty has consumed me alive and now he's dead, and I'm left, all burnt out._

London didn't know it, but it just lost the most accomplished mastermind in the world. The world didn't feel it, but Sebastian did. He felt the gaping hole that Jim left enough to compensate for everyone else.

London would pay; the whole world would pay for it. They would pay for allowing Jim Moriarty to slip through their fingers. But none will ever pay as much as Sebastian was now.

Jim was wrong; the villian could have his happy ending after all. James Moriarty may have been considered the villain to everyone else, but in Sebastian's storybook, Sherlock Holmes would always be the antagonist who prevailed in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> The cartoon that Jim paused on briefly was Spongebob, Valentine's Day episode.


End file.
